She's a Pretty Girl, Isn't She.

the girl in the green dress
was sitting when he got there
sipping kindly from her glasses,
while he arrived in scruff, in the shadows;
someone told her he was there
but she didn't look,
she waited.

he came,
asked her if she minded if he sat there
wondered if she was saving the seat
for someone else.
slipped beside her in the vinyl booth,
and told her about later
when they would teach a lesson together
in seperate rooms of the same building.

he wants to love her, take her home,
asks her not to start being who she is,
spoiled brat,
screaming when he knocks
her opal ring to the floor of the car.
sits with both his arms open,
tells her to wait,
while he picks up trouble for the evening.

noone knows they're here together,
but at the end of the night,
its him pushing her against the wall,
with laughter filtering through the thick of his back
to her chest,
asking her where they're going,
asking if she minds taking him home.

in the morning he travels home,
while she takes off somewhere,
looking for the cushion on the inside of her skull
where she keeps the things she's looking for.
the girl in the green dress
has other plans, other places,
not wanting to eat until completely bare,
savouring each piece tasted well inside her.